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WHO: Venkman and Stantz
WHERE: Their place at Xavier's
WHEN: Today
WARNINGS: idek
SUMMARY: Shenanigans
FORMAT: quick

"YOU WOULD drop the ball!"

Venkman sat antsy on the couch, shoving Doritos into his mouth. He had been watching the AFC championship and New York was getting trashed. He had a habit of eating when upset, and boy was he upset.

"USELESS!" he shouts, throwing the remote on the ground during the commercial break and turning for the fridge. This game was leading him to drink.

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Ray isn't the kind of person to jump unless provoked (the sight of a free roaming specter with a nasty penchant for shapeshifting was a pretty good motivator), but Venkman's voice was enough to cause him to uncomfortably fidget in his chair, dropping the screwdriver he was holding onto the kitchen table.

"Would it kill ya to tone it down in there?" He gripes over his shoulder at the other man. A grumpy Ray was not a nice Ray. Currently, it had been over five hours since he had last eaten, and wiring circuits without the schematics to fall back on was hardly on his list of things to do on a Sunday evening.

"I can't help it the Jets aren't even trying, Ray." He replied, opening the fridge. "Didn't we have something other than Pabst in here? Jesus."

Venkman shrugged, grabbed a can, and then leaned against the counter, facing Ray. "What are you messing with, anyway?"

Quirking a brow, he holds up the skeleton frame of a pair of Ecto Goggles. That should be enough to also clue Peter in as to why he's so sour; making a new pair of goggles for his oh-so brave and grateful teammate also doesn't make the list. If anything, it falls on a hard #89.

"I don't get what you see in that game, man," He comments (gripes, really), returning to his work. Working the tool skillfully as he unscrews some pesky bolts, he adds, "I could understand if you were just lying about it to impress some girl, but to actually take it seriously?" He makes a little pffft sound.

Venkman looks offended, he nearly spills his beer upon opening it.

"Ray, if you don't like football, you're not American." he says before taking a big gulp of what tastes like leopard piss. "Take a break from that, will you? Pretend to be interested in normal things for once. We'll order a pizza. Hot wings. Anything, your pick."

At the promise of food, Ray seems to perk up, eyes taking on a glow not unlike that of a dog who has been promised a particularly juicy bone.

"Pizza?" He scratches his chin, thoughtfully. "Gee, Pete, that's real nice of you to offer, but it's getting kinda late and if I stop now, I'll never finish this by tonight."

Very briefly, his eyes became furtive and sly.

"Now, if you we were talking those neat cinnamon dunking sticks instead of wings, then I might be able to multitask."

"That's the spirit!" he said, slamming his beer down on the counter and reaching for a nearby phone to place an order. Two meat-lovers pizzas (yes, two), and one of those, and he did quote, neat cinnamon dunking sticks.

He hung up, just in time as the game started back up, and he was suddenly in a trance again by the TV.

He's beaming, smiling despite himself. It doesn't take much to get on Ray's good side; Venkman is just lucky that he's a) known Ray for so long, and b) knows how to push his buttons. It'll be very easy to watch something so boring as a sports game when he has pizza to take his mind off the general weirdness of burly men tackling each other for balls.

...Wait. What if he makes me watch the after-game commentary?

Frowning, Ray taps the side of his cheek with the end of the screwdriver.

Jeeze, that'd suck... Takes me back to the days when Dad tried to make me watch the game with him.

Venkman's football-trance was lifted. He was hearing Ray again. But not just hearing Ray. He was hearing him in his head.

"I bet he had no trouble getting your sister to watch it-GO, GO GO GO---AH!"

He stopped mid sentence once the Jets had the ball, only to lose it again. Venkman slammed the counter with his hands.

"What happened to my beer..." he said, turning for where he left it on the counter. There was definitely anger in his voice.

Ray blinks, alarmed, and winces at the harsh sound. "'scuse me?"

But internally, he's thinking:

Jeeze, Pete, if you like Allison so much, go marry her. It's bad enough you're all she ever talks about when I call her."

"That'll be the day." he says with another gulp of beer, turning back to the television. "Too bad she only sleeps with other women, now."

"COME ON!! It kills me that these men get paid so much, but they can't even hold onto the ball. Hell, I bet you could do a better job, Ray."

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